When I was in France last week, I wanted to send a postcard. Using my secret French knowledge I went to a tabac to purchase a stamp (you can only buy stamps in a tabac or a post office and not elsewhere because the French like to torture you). There were two men ahead of me in the queue; not too bad, I thought. The second man was in a wheelchair and when he opened his mouth, it became clear that he was very disabled. He was extremely difficult to understand and you know how the French are, if you are at all unclear. But the woman behind the counter was really patient and worked out what he wanted (an envelope, size A5, it took a while but we got there). Then she had to come around the other side of the counter and get the money from his coat pocket (he had a bad tremor) and put the envelope in the satchel slung on the back of the wheelchair. She treated him with such dignity and patience (and it took ages) that it was quite inspiring to watch. Finally it was my turn. “I’d like a stamp,” said I. She shrugged, “We’re out, try the post office around the corner.” Oh France, never, never change.
I took my courage in my hands and went to the post office; you know what post offices are like. When I went in the door a young woman rushed up to greet me; what did I want? One stamp. She referred me to an empty desk. “This is more like it,” I thought but almost instantly not one but two assistants surged forward. “What do you need?” they asked in unison. “A stamp,” I said. They began pulling sheets of stamps from under the desk. “Just one,” I said slightly nervously. “But which design would you prefer?” asked the one. “This one with the croissant is scratch and sniff,” said the other encouragingly. I bought the scratch and sniff one which was carefully separated from its comrades and lovingly handed over to me. I think I have never had a better post office experience. Odd though.
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